Home

     Are those of us with a fixed "home" better off, somehow, than people who might not have a constant place to call home?

     Wait. I don't feel like I have a fixed home. Those of you who've known me for more than a little while know that I've long struggled to be truly comfortable in my environs.

     My friend Kir's mom still lives in the house in Columbus that Kir and her brother grew up in. But that doesn't make Kir immune to the vagaries of life in 21st century America. 

    My favorite 13-almost-14-year-olds have each lived in ... let's see ... at least four different houses apiece. I love them both and I know they like me, but are they damaged because they haven't been able to really put down roots? They're glorious kids, effervescent and lovable and witty and creative and brilliant. They know they have people who love them, I know they know that. I'll have to ask them what they think about this. I'm optimistic that they'll be OK.

     This afternoon, I drove past the house I grew up in, the place I called home for, gosh, 35 years. It's just a 1920's house, solid and friendly, and I always have to try not to cry when I see it. I mean, why cry over a house? But I usually cave, especially if I'm alone, and let 'er rip. It was a good place, and it feels good to have a connection to it. But it's somebody else's home now, and that's out of my control.

     So I drove farther, to some land we own that's really not in the middle of nowhere but looks like it could be. It's three miles close to a couple of little towns, but you can't see them from the property. When I was a little kid, it was pasture land, and Mom and Dad and I would drive up there once every weekend just to check the fence and check on things and make sure somebody's beer party hadn't left too much of a mess. I'd catch tadpoles and turtles and snakes and run around with abandon. I'd sit by the windmill while my parents were driving around checking fence (hmmmm.... hmmmm ... that's an interesting euphemism, now that I think of it ... ) and sing at the top of my lungs and imagine that I'd be famous someday. It's probably the place where I learned to drive, too. 

     Today I drove my rental car through the mud and snow to get out there, where it's 150-some acres of corn stubble this year, potato leavings next year. It was so glorious to stand at the high spot and just stare at the clouds and the horizon ... and breathe.

    

     Here, a few things I like about being home:

     ... driving down the middle of our blacktop road with impunity.

     ... waiting for a miles-long Union Pacific coal train, bedecked with garish Homer Simpson graffitti.

     ... meeting my dad's new friends at the place where he lives, and reconnecting with old family friends.

     ... meeting people from my past and finding out how nice it feels to reconnect.

     ... staying at the marvelous old house in my hometown that's been turned into the sweetest b&b.

     ... being able to see forever.

     ... $2 hamburgers and cheap beer at Glur's.

     ... hearing the trains go through town.

     ... being reminded of just how beautiful Nebraska is.

      

You just never know

Do the sidewalks in your town roll up after about 9:30 p.m. or so?

 

It's awfully hard to find a companionable place to hang out here after I get off work at 12:30 a.m. on weeknights. I just want to be with people for a little bit, to hear some stories, hear some jokes, connect with the regulars. I don't ask much, and I don't aspire to have more than a beer or two.

So on a recent Monday night after I'd worked my last day shift ever (more on that another time), about 10 or so, we decided to check out Abilene's Christmas party. Admittedly, we were fashionably late, considering things got started about 7 or so. But there were maybe five cars in the parking lot, seven cars on the street, total. And I'm thinking, "Geez, Rochester, c'mon!"

  

Now, the thing about Abilene is, it's in a bizarro neighborhood, across the street from the hall where Lucinda Williams was supposed to have played last fall and around the corner from a hip-hop joint. But the lighting is good and security vigilant, so I've never not felt safe there. 

And once you're inside, well, I think I like it so much because it reminds me of Glur's Tavern in Columbus. (Ah, finally, a Nebraska connection in this blog!) Great wooden floor, nooks and crannies, edgy but lovable bartenders. Except that Glur's wasn't a gay bar in a previous incarnation. It's always been Glur's. 

Abilene's a little snug, and that's a good thing. It's hard to tell how many people are really there, usually not as many as it feels like, unless there's a great band playin' and then it can get very cozy.

And once we got inside that Monday night, it turned out to be just cozy enough. The band was decked out in Christmas goofiness, as were a few folks in the crowd. There was a little dancin' goin' on, but mostly people just relaxing and having a good time. And then I spied Mr. JazzFest, John Nugent. OK, spied isn't exactly the word; it's kind of hard to miss a guy wearing a Santa hat rimmed with flashing lights. And lo and behold, he breaks out his sax and starts playing Christmas carols. He didn't steal the show, just played a few songs with the band and wandered the bar playing songs like "Frosty the Snowman." Stuff so irresistably sweet and corny, you had to smile.

It was one of those sweet moments that makes it so darn hard to hate Rochester for very long.

P.S. And for those of you who might have been at Abilene on Saturday  and saw us dancing perhaps a little too, uhm, vociferously ... we're OK. Bruised, yes, but OK. I just hope I didn't land on somebody's iPod.